


something real

by virginianwolfsnake



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/F, a surprising amount of romance for two villains really, also cheating? but not really, murder girlfriends having a nice time, smut but also feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23841841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virginianwolfsnake/pseuds/virginianwolfsnake
Summary: esmé and georgina have their own ways of communicating.
Relationships: Georgina Orwell/Esmé Squalor
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	something real

The dress is…_unique_, to say the least. A shade or two deeper than ivory, it seems to be composed primarily of gossamer, with an odd abstract stitching pattern giving some shape and cover from the chest to low-hip, tapering off at the thigh to leave only lightly dotted gauze covering the length of her legs. The colour blends almost seamlessly with her fair skin, such that even in the areas where the dress is not transparent it still almost seems to be so. The combined effect is such that this is simultaneously one of the most and least revealing things she has ever worn in Georgina’s presence - and that really _is_ saying something.

She notices approvingly that her shoulders are genuinely bare, delicate bones and long neck inviting even from several paces away. Her face will no doubt be painted differently tomorrow for the pictures, but there is a savage contrast between the deep violet of her lips today and the pale dress that Georgina finds both jarring and appealing.

Those violet lips are pouting now as Esmé comes to a halt, apparently satisfied that she has shown Georgina the dress from enough angles. “Don’t you like it?”

Georgina has been known to question the practicality of her fashion choices, but she has never been able to truly say she does not _like_ them, even at their most mind-boggling. Though the hypnotist would not want to inflate her ego by saying so, she does have a way of pulling off everything from leather to latex to lace - and, on one memorable day, _baubles_ \- with absolute aplomb. Besides that, Esmé remains Esmé underneath whatever couture has been dictated by the columnists this week.

But this is a little different. As questionable as it might be for a wedding, there is simply no way to deny that, on Esmé at least, it is a work of art.

“It’s very beautiful,” she admits eventually. Having become accustomed to not receiving the kind of simpering praise from Georgina as she does from her pet at the Daily Punctilio, Esmé is pleased enough with this response to break into a wide, excited smile. She strides over, grasps her by the wrist, and drags her from the doorway she has been lingering in to the centre of her bedroom to force her to examine various trinkets and jewels for tomorrow laid out on a dark mahogany desk.

Between her chatter about the flowers, the table favours and the veil, Georgina tries to quell and pointedly _not_ identify the bizarre sensation in her chest.

“- don’t you think, darling?” Georgina quickly zones back in to their rather one-sided conversation to ascertain that they are talking about the bouquet, and hums to indicate her agreement.

It is not that she is jealous. There is nothing to be jealous of. Georgina wouldn’t profess a claim over Esmé any more than she would give money to a charity. Besides that, Esmé’s reviews of her current fiancé have not so far been anything approaching glowing. _Then again_, an unhelpful voice somewhere in the back of her mind chimes in, _she lies about as well as she breathes_.

“- anyway, the movers have finished now for the day, which is why the place is so hideously bare. I can’t see the harm in getting my things delivered today. It’s hardly as though Jerome won’t have the space for them - and if that _is_ the case, he can put them away for me. I’ve been thinking there’s something to be said for starting as you mean to go on.”

_As you mean to go on?_ Georgina cannot help but wonder. _But for how long? _Vaguely watching her eyes glint with excitement, Georgina’s logic argues that for a woman who adores nothing more than being the centre of attention a wedding is probably an exciting occasion, regardless of whether it is just a ruse.

“- and, as _delicious_ as it would have been, I have to say I am glad in the end that Snicket won’t be making an appearance.”

There is probably nothing unnatural about being a little apprehensive. Regardless, she is almost certain that Esmé has not invited her here to hear about her apparent anxiety over what has already been clearly defined as a means to an end. And if it _wasn’t_, really, what business would that be of hers?

“Darling,” Georgina’s latest train of thought has evidently gone on for longer than she planned, because suddenly Esmé’s eyes are trained on hers when she refocuses. “Is something the matter?”

“_No_, no,” Georgina replies hastily, offering what she hopes is a convincing version of a warm smile - it is not an expression she has much occasion to practice. While this doesn’t seem to quite convince the other woman, Georgina has more tricks than that up her sleeve to create distractions. “But, Esmé, I have to say you may have gotten dressed a _little_ early.”

With a devious smirk, Esmé turns her back on the table and takes a seat atop it, pulling her close to stand over her. “I thought you might want to see me in it.”

At first, Georgina considers telling her how incorrect that assumption is. She has already declined her invitation - citing an invented ophthalmology conference and pointedly ignoring the ensuing flicker of disappointment in her lover’s eyes - and certainly could have done without the image of her in the dress to ruminate over for the next few weeks. But then she identifies that playful tone, the subtle tilt of her head and a familiar expectant stare, and realises that they have moved from a discussion of wedding planning to a discussion about something rather different.

As her eyes flicker from her slender throat, across clavicles and lower, something in the back of her mind wonders whether the younger woman has identified the anxiety within her and recognised what she needs to assuage it before she has even seen it herself. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time Esmé has managed to surprise her.

“Oh, did you?” Georgina is not at all in the mood to resist this turn of events, however unexpected. She is even less inclined to do so when Esmé begins to pepper gentle kisses over the line of her jaw, her chin, her lips - fingernails digging into the back of her blazer to pull her closer even more insistently. The thin fabric of her dress is thankfully simple enough to gather out of the way, hitched around her hips to allow Georgina the space to stand between her legs.

The twitch of a smile against her lips tells her in no uncertain terms that there is a further surprise. Too deliciously preoccupied with her tongue sliding wet and hot into her mouth, slender fingers deftly peeling away the blazer, Georgina simply notes this and resolves to find out what it is later. Esmé kisses ravenously, as though she has craved this and nothing else for an impossible length of time and nothing else in the world could persuade her to stop. It is overwhelming, spellbinding and utterly distracting- so much so that Georgina is not aware of the buttons of her blouse being steadily undone until the fabric is being slid from her shoulders.

Both hands trailing over slender thighs, Georgina locates the surprise when there is a complete lack of a barrier to breach at the top, and summarily breaks away for air and for a low chuckle.

“Not _entirely_ dressed, then,” she murmurs, though amusement quickly turns to undisguised hunger when she discovers how wet she already is.

Esmé pouts. “You _said_ you’d be here at three. I’ve been waiting over an _hour_. If I weren’t in such a good mood I’d be - ”

The complaint seems to die on her tongue as Georgina trails a finger through her folds, slicking her arousal over the swollen nub at the top. The woman beneath her interrupts herself with a gasp and a buck of the hips designed to encourage further exploration.

“You’d be…?” Georgina prompts, desperate to sound as unaffected as she ought to.

Esmé wisely decides not to answer that question. Leaning further back, supported on her forearms, she levels the older woman with a look that Georgina knows well. I_’m yours, yours, yours,_ her eyes chant, even if her lips won’t join them.

Georgina accepts the keening, desperate cry she receives as the tip of a well-manicured index finger plays at her entrance in lieu of a reply. She presses a half-fingertip inside, for a moment, and revels unapologetically in the frustrated sound that follows.

“Georg_ina_,” Esmé intones, voice thick with want. “_Now_.”

The optometrist hums, unimpressed by this effort, and continues her teasing touches, a skim of a hand against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, the barest suggestion of a brush against the spot she wants her to touch the most.

“_Demands_ never get you what you want, Esmé,” she reminds her. “Haven’t we already learned what to say instead?”

Perhaps it is the waiting she has apparently done already today - or perhaps it is the delicious notion of being fucked senseless in the gown she intends to wear to pledge herself to her new husband tomorrow. Perhaps she simply knows that Georgina needs to hear it today. Either way, there is no need for hypnotism today to make the words Georgina wants to hear slip easily from her lips.

“_Please_,” she whispers, without hesitation, eyes alight with the exhilaration of her own surrender. There is something approaching genuine warmth there, too, something that Georgina catches only after her plea is entered - but, when she searches for it again, it is gone as quickly as it appeared. Some vulnerabilities are easier to give oneself over to than others. “Please, Georgie, _please_.”

As satisfying as it might be to wait until she’s sobbing, so needy she can barely speak, Georgina recognises the warmth coiling in her own abdomen and knows she won’t be able to hold out long enough to make it a reality. Slicked already by the undeniable evidence of the younger woman’s arousal, Georgina allows her index finger to slide inside, slowly, crooking up as her thumb hovers over the sensitive bundle of nerves screaming for her attention.

“_God_,” the blonde sighs, voice cracking, giving herself over instantly to the urge to rock her hips into the contact. Admittedly keen to please her - if not so keen to look like it - Georgina slips a second finger in alongside the first, setting a slow, maddening rhythm and secretly delighting in the strangled moan that follows.

“Do you think he’ll notice?” she asks in a low purr, thumb brushing over her clit.

“Hm?”

Georgina’s fingers continue their exploration, curling upwards as her thumb circles, and Esmé’s back arches with a sharp sigh. The optometrist leans closer, lips against her neck. “Tomorrow, I mean,” she clarifies. “It’ll be your wedding night. Do you think he’ll notice -” here, she pauses to sink her teeth into the base of her pale throat. “_That?”_

“I don’t _care_,” Esmé whines, hips undulating to try to encourage a faster pace. “Come _on_...”

“Do you think he’ll realise what a _whore_ he’s married?” She presses her thumb down a little harder so that the blonde’s hips jerk.

Esmé doesn’t reply, and though Georgina isn’t ordinarily in the habit of rewarding poor behaviour, she thinks she might be able to make an exception for the special occasion. In any case, it seems whatever remained of her resolve has crumbled. “Harder,” she whispers, somehow both a plea and an order all at once. “Stop playing and _fuck me.”_

“You're going to have to hope you’re a good enough actress. Have to hope he can’t tell you’re thinking about me, won’t you? Wishing I was there to teach him how to pull you apart like this?”

“_Yes_,” Esmé moans, breathless now, one hand sliding into her hair to pull her in for a rough, desperate kiss.

Georgina’s own knees threaten to buckle. Slipping a third finger in with the first two - and revelling in Esmé’s gasp - she hovers above her, so close that their noses are almost brushing, so close that she can feel her laboured breaths on her cheeks.

“I have to make sure you’re really ruined for him first,” she cannot help the words as they spill from her lips, twisting and curling her fingers. “I have to make sure you can _feel me_ when you’re at the altar, make sure he knows what a brazen _slut _he’s married…”

Esmé doesn’t _want _to like this, she knows - and few others would get away with speaking to her this way. But the sheer _wrong_ness of the delicate fabric bunched at her waist, of wronging her husband before the papers are even signed, is too much for her to resist. Her hips buck unapologetically as Georgina picks up her pace, and her moan is throaty and full as her lover’s hand slides up and into blonde curls, pulling taut.

Georgina is no stranger to control, but the way Esmé submits today is easier, softer than usual. She feels supremely powerful, as though she is somehow the only person in the whole world - but, more than that, she feels so exquisitely _wanted_.

“Are you going to moan like that tomorrow night?” She is so close now that she can whisper it now into the base of the pale, sweet-scented skin of other woman’s throat.

It seems whatever remained of Esmé’s resolve has crumbled entirely now, breathy moans blending into one delicious sound, broken only to demand _more_, quite stridently for a woman in her position.

Georgina tells herself that she is simply in an obliging mood. Her hand disengages from the curls, enough to give her the space she needs, splaying her fingers across her abdomen as her thumb brushes purposefully over her clit again, building the pressure in counterpoint to her twisting fingers. The other woman’s fingernails dig into her bicep, the sharp pain a delicious contrast with the sodden ache between her own legs.

“_Esmé_,” she says, though she is not sure what she’s asking for in return, and in between shuddering gaps, the smouldering green gaze latches onto her own.

“No,” she manages to whisper once she is certain she has her attention, an overdue answer to Georgina’s questions. Even as her hips stutter and her thighs quiver, even though the angle is awkward, it seems very important to her that she reach up to cup Georgina’s jaw in a surprising display of tenderness. “_No_, darling, he -” her breath is short now and she interrupts herself as it hitches, “he won’t have _this_.”

The swooping sensation in Georgina’s chest is one she associates with long-lost romances from decades ago - when she was far more foolish and so easily led. It is a feeling she associates, for the most part, with what she remembers as embarrassing miscalculations, and one she has pushed down so many times since in fear of making those same mistakes again. But, as the warm feeling blossoms through her, there is a flash of real sincerity in the other woman’s eyes too - as if she wants her to know, even if neither of them will say the words. It is better than any meaningless pledge in front of an officiant.

In lieu of a verbal reply, Georgina refocuses her efforts - and, within seconds, notices the tell-tale twitch of her lover’s abdomen, the jerk of her thighs. Her fingers curl against her neck, eyes fluttering shut, curls bouncing as her head falls back. _Say my name_, Georgina wishes, and when it is so promptly answered she can only assume she has accidentally said it aloud.

In the final moments, as her core tightens and the wave of her orgasm breaks and rolls through her, the woman beneath her obliges, chanting “_Georgina_” in a tone of reverence she feels she could not possibly deserve until her voice cracks.

Before her breathing has even fully slowed, Georgina has leaned down for a deep, leisurely kiss. There will be no need for them to discuss the newfound weightless feeling in her chest, so different than when she arrived. The scattered wedding trinkets feel simple and irrelevant now, as inconsequential as fallen autumn leaves. There is also no need for them to discuss the way Esmé’s hands tangle in her hair, as if trying to pull her impossibly closer. It is clear enough.

Georgina inclines her head so that their foreheads touch after their lips have parted, and cannot contain a smile.

“What?” the woman beneath her murmurs, fingertips brushing softly against her back as the fingernails of her other hand scratch gentle patterns into her scalp.

Georgina hums, avoiding meeting her eyes. “I was just wondering if I couldn’t move things around after all.” Brushing away a stray lock of brown hair that Esmé’s interference has pushed out of place, she purses her lips as though she is still considering. “It’ll be a shame to miss the conference, obviously, but it’d also be quite a shame to miss watching you pretend this dress is fresh tomorrow.”

She pauses, aware that she is not quite managing to pull off the lie and wondering why she is trying. The most honest part of her mind puts forward an alternative: _I want to be there_ _because I know you wanted me there. I want to share it with you, even if I don’t enjoy it._

She is certain she has not said it aloud this time, but it’s almost as if Esmé has heard anyway. With a wide, bright smile and those knowing eyes, she manoeuvres her head so that their lips brush again and, between feather-light kisses, says with the same faux-nonchalance; “I’m _sure_ I can accommodate that.”


End file.
